The Path of Anger

by Antoine Rouaud

  ‘There are supporters of the Count of Uster here in Emeris, Dun-Cadal,’ the assassin continued. ‘They took refuge from the fighting here and are scheming in the shadows! Against us! Open your eyes.’

  ‘They’re wide open,’ retorted Dun-Cadal. ‘And what I see before me does not please me at all . . .’

  ‘The Saltmarsh, Dun-Cadal. You brought the Saltmarsh here, close to the Emperor. Forget your new apprentice. He will never be strong enough to defend the Emperor against his true enemies.’

  So that was it. In the heat of their duel, Logrid was finally revealing his jealousy.

  ‘I chose you,’ Dun-Cadal said sharply. ‘I chose you among so many others to relieve me as the Hand of the Emperor. Frog will never take your place. Something else awaits him.’

  It was enough of a peace offering, Dun-Cadal hoped, to put an end to Logrid’s jealousy which he suspected had hatched even before their arrival in Emeris. A jealousy that had grown like a malignant weed with their recent success in the North and the slaying of the red dragon. But Logrid had the opposite reaction. He took a quick step forward, as if on the verge of exploding again, before changing his mind . . . and slowly placing his sword back in its scabbard to show he no longer had any intention of fighting. Only his voice betrayed his anger. It rolled around his throat, as hard and heavy as a rock.

  ‘You think I’m trying to separate you from your new pupil because I’m afraid he’ll replace me?’

  ‘He’s gifted, I told you that. You took offence and I can understand that, but—’

  ‘Dun-Cadal . . .’

  His voice had changed. There was now a certain sadness mixed with disillusionment.

  ‘This is not a simple revolt that you can crush by force. Our whole world is changing. I’m doing my part, doing it better than anyone. I’ve taken many lives of the filthy bastards who are threatening us, but alone I will not succeed . . . There are noblemen poised to change sides if the rebels reach the gates of Emeris. Some of them are already plotting the fall of our city.’

  So many divergences had grown up between them. They no longer understood one another, if they ever had.

  ‘I taught you to kill for the Emperor, to defend him, not to take pride in it,’ Dun-Cadal said in firm condemnation. ‘In my time, the Hand was feared and respected. Since you put on the uniform, everything —’

  ‘— you built I’ve destroyed,’ Logrid completed for him. ‘As if I haven’t heard that sermon before. I have . . .’

  He hesitated before lifting his gauntleted fist and pointing a finger at the general. He took a step towards the edge of the altar.

  ‘. . . respect for you. You taught me everything. But you are such a . . . peasant,’ he spat. ‘So crude and down-to-earth. Old-fashioned, that’s what you are, Dun-Cadal. It’s never occurred to you that I might be able to teach you a thing or two.’

  ‘By the gods, Logrid,’ Dun-Cadal fumed.

  ‘Enough with your gods!’ the assassin growled. ‘Are they here, warning you about the dangers facing us? No. I am!’

  He took a step back. The shadow of his hood disappeared in the warm midday light pouring through the big stained-glass window, revealing a mouth marked by a scar on its upper lip which was still visible beneath a nascent beard.

  ‘There are voices murmuring against the Emperor. The evil that Oratio of Uster unleashed is here, right now. There are voices offering bad advice, masking the truth behind innocent words. The refugees from the Saltmarsh are conspiring against His Imperial Majesty and the nobles are preparing to abandon him if the revolt becomes a full-fledged revolution. They will preserve their places, believe me.’

  ‘What foolishness . . .’ muttered Dun-Cadal, looking away. ‘You hear things and then twist their meaning.’

  ‘I am the eyes, the ears and the Hand of the Emperor, Dun-Cadal. I am the guarantor of the Empire! I believe in him, not in any divinity. I shall defend him, and his world, to the death. But you . . . you don’t listen anymore, you don’t see anymore . . . and your hand will tremble on the day when we need to fight.’

  Dun-Cadal shook his head in disgust and decided he must leave this place before his anger and his disappointment burst forth again. They’d challenged one another and crossed swords already. This rebellion was sowing confusion, making former allies hate one another to the point of murderous rage.

  ‘The war is no longer being decided on the battlefield, Dun-Cadal. It’s now a matter of words and promises. Of seduction, lies and betrayals. Those who plot do so in the shadows. And who can ferret them out better than me?’

  Words, promises, betrayals . . . What if the real duel between them was made up of these things? Weary of speaking, Dun-Cadal tried to deliver a final crushing blow.

  ‘They will remember his name. Not yours . . .’ he said, his gaze lost in the distance.

  But he’d overlooked Logrid’s own talents, talents he’d never been able to perceive, including his capacity to use words to undermine and wound more deeply than any sword.

  ‘No one else has heard what I’ve told you,’ the assassin admitted coldly. ‘No one else deserves my trust and my respect. No one else could save the Empire like Dun-Cadal Daermon. This boy from the Saltmarsh will be your burden to bear. When he falls, he will drag you with him . . .’

  He retreated several steps before adding:

  ‘. . . into the abyss.’

  Dun-Cadal lowered his eyes. When he raised them again, the assassin had disappeared. He remained standing for a few minutes, one hand placed on the back of the pew in front of him, not allowing himself to lean against a pillar. He let his gaze drift over the flag-stones leading up to the altar, lit by the sunshine tinged from the stained glass. His mind was divided between anger and reflection. He was a man of war, not of words. A general, not a courtier. An iron fist poised to strike, not one of those who schemed in the Emperor’s shadow to decide the world’s fate. The only advice he willingly gave His Majesty was the product of common sense, that of the land where he had been born and raised. The son of a provincial nobleman in the West, he had walked barefoot as a child. Logrid, on the other hand, had grown up in Emeris among the elite before Dun-Cadal had seen his potential and made him his successor. A nobleman by the name of Duberon had seduced the daughter of a good family, but then had not dared recognise the child born of their dalliance and risk compromising his position at court with a scandal. He therefore bought the young unmarried mother’s silence by agreeing to finance Logrid’s education. Dun-Cadal had taken notice of the boy just as the Emperor offered to make him a general. Logrid seemed the ideal candidate to replace him. A perfect Hand of the Emperor, skilled in combat, agile and clever. The Hand of a sickly Emperor whose power was being contested by certain parties. An immortal Hand, nameless and faceless but not lacking in honour. Logrid had accepted. His mother’s life had just been taken by disease, after she had sought to forget her former lover in the city’s slums. A degradation the boy had witnessed without being able to do anything about it . . . except endure it.

  The gods work in mysterious ways.

  The assassin’s very first victim had been Duberon. The count was one of those who believed the Reyes dynasty was nearing the end of its reign . . . With hindsight, Dun-Cadal could not deny Logrid’s allegiance or doubt his initial intentions. Nevertheless, he remained convinced that jealousy had played a part in his decisions. That a plot existed now was no mere hypothesis. But to suspect Frog of being a participant seemed more like a settling of scores.

  The general sighed.

  He found no comfort, no answers from the statue of the god that rose behind him. No matter how hard he scrutinised the figure, its half-opened stone eyes stared ahead without taking any notice of the insignificant being at its feet.

  ‘No one has the right to name them. They are everywhere and in everything.

  ‘They are here, now. Before us, as they will be after us.’

  Once, during his apprenticeship, Logrid had questioned him on the
subject of the gods, and his mentor hadn’t imagined for a single instant that his pupil’s doubts would harden into certitude.

  ‘But who are they? Are the things I believe I decide really written down? What right do they have to predestine us for anything at all? Are we just playthings to them?’

  To all these questions, Dun-Cadal had only found one answer:

  ‘They are the gods. They are not playing with us, but from our lives they make stories, tales, sagas. So that humanity can achieve its full potential. They know the beginning and the end of time. We thank them for having given us life and a destiny whose meaning belongs to them.’

  And there, beneath the statue whose gaze he was vainly scrutinising, the idea of turning to any other answer seemed inconceivable to him.

  11

  THE FALL OF THE EMPIRE

  How many years does it take to build an empire?

  How many seconds to destroy one . . . ?

  He mopped his face with the back of his hand.

  In the filthy cell, bathed in a warm orange light, sticky metal bars obstructed a small high opening in the wall, beyond which boots could be seen scuffing past. With each step, a little more dirt spilled down upon the prisoner’s head. Lying on his hard wooden pallet, his fingers interlaced behind his neck, Dun-Cadal watched the light diminish along with the number of passers-by. For hours now, he had been waiting patiently for someone to come question him. Again and again, he went over the chain of events, trying to understand, to find a meaning in all this, a reason, something that would reassure him. He had left Negus while both generals still served the Empire and he had found him again working with those who had defeated their former cause. Whatever the reasons for such a change of heart, Dun-Cadal would surely never understand them. Even so, he would never have taken his friend’s life; indeed, he’d tried to warn him. But what good would it do to deny it? Plainly, he was the ideal suspect. In this cramped space, he played with his memories like the pieces of a puzzle, trying to fit them together into a coherent picture. But nothing came to him. When the trap in the door slid aside, he ignored it. An eye appeared in the opening, accompanied by a sardonic laugh.

  ‘Hey!’ called a nasal voice. ‘General! Howzit goin’?’

  He couldn’t see the man, but his tone was enough to picture him. He imagined him to be gaunt and dirty, bitter at a being a mere warden and, worst of all, stupid. Outside the prison walls, he was, no doubt, an object of contempt. In here, he had ample leisure to take his revenge by humiliating prisoners, from behind a heavy iron door, as they rotted in their cells.

  ‘Ya were a grand’un, it seemz, zat it? A gen’ral ’mung gen’rals. Yer not so prad naw,’ the voice chuckled. ‘T’er wer’ sum like ya who s’rend’erd. We’z niz t’em. But wunz like you wot din’ s’rend’r, ya ’nowz wat we do t’em?’

  Without taking his eyes off the daylight fading above his head, Dun-Cadal smiled thinly.

  ‘You make councillors of them,’ he murmured.

  ‘We ’ang ’em,’ the warder assured him as if he hadn’t heard the reply. ‘T’at, fer sure with yer ol’ vet’ranz mug, iz wat t’ey’ll do t’ya. Ya did t’ingz durin’ t’war.’

  His tone changed abruptly.

  ‘Enjoy yerself,’ he advised, full of scorn, ‘cuz zoon, gen’ral ‘r not, y’ll jez be a poor booger at end off a rope.’

  He shut the trap forcefully. The clack of the metal was masked by his sniggering and then the sound of his steps gradually receded. When they were no more than a distant echo, Dun-Cadal let out a sigh. Perhaps the warden was right. Perhaps he was going to face judgement. Mildrel had warned him: ‘You know what the Republic has done to generals who failed to rally to its side . . .’

  He had tried to save a councillor’s life. Only Viola could testify in his favour. But where was she? What if she decided to abandon him? He tried not to dwell on it and closed his eyes. It was not the first time he had found himself locked up in a cell and, although on the previous occasion his life had not been in jeopardy, he did not recall the situation having been any more comfortable. Quite the opposite. It had been twelve years earlier . . . far from Masalia . . .

  . . . he remembered having searched high and low for Frog in the military academy, without success.

  ‘Aladzio!’

  . . . in Emeris. The image of the shining city slowly took form in his memories and he left his putrid cell behind as he remembered walking towards the academy’s great courtyard.

  ‘Aladzio!!!’ he hailed, approaching the inventor with a rapid step.

  Wearing a blue cloak with gold piping, a tricorne perched on his head, Aladzio stood out among the grey tunics worn by the academy’s cadets. But even more than his attire, it was his attitude that distinguished him. While the cadets at his side drew back with a show of deference, he did not even seem aware of the general’s arrival. A few feet behind him, upon a wooden base, rested a long tube made of black lead. Whatever the new machine might be that the inventor was testing there in the middle of the school courtyard, Dun-Cadal was not interested. It was only when he was standing right before Aladzio that the latter finally noticed his presence, still preoccupied with resolving some tricky problem.

  ‘Ah,’ he murmured distractedly, ‘General Daermon . . . to what do we owe . . . do we owe . . . ?

  ‘. . . the pleasure of my visit, is that what you’re asking, Aladzio?’

  ‘Well yes, I mean, it’s always pleasant to see you.’

  Aladzio wasn’t even looking at the general, still absorbed by the machine waiting behind him.

  ‘Perhaps a little more sulphur . . . or saltpetre . . . unless we need a lighter ball,’ he mused aloud.

  ‘Aladzio . . .’

  ‘The projectile must achieve a high velocity, while remaining on a precise axis, otherwise . . . Boom! It explodes,’ he continued, miming a violent explosion with his two open hands.

  ‘Aladzio.’

  ‘Or else it’s . . . But of course!’ he exclaimed in delighted realisation. ‘It’s the humidity! The mixture is too damp! So the powder fails to react.’

  ‘Aladzio!’ rumbled Dun-Cadal in annoyance.

  They had spent a long month on the road from Kapernevic to Emeris enduring Aladzio’s unending flow of words. More than once Dun-Cadal had to prevent Frog from braining the man with his sword. But as they approached the Imperial capital, the two warriors started, if not to like him, at least to tolerate his chatter.

  ‘I’m looking for Frog . . .’

  ‘Ah, yes, yes,’ jabbered Aladzio, rubbing his hands.

  The inventor assured Dun-Cadal that he would find his pupil near the walkway, a sort of long stone bridge connecting the military academy to the armoury, and overlooking the palace’s hanging gardens. The general left Aladzio to his device and crossed the courtyard. Since their return Aladzio and Frog had, against all expectations, become friends. Dun-Cadal was not overly upset by the fact that his pupil chose to hang about with the alchemist; after all, he was allowing the lad a well-deserved rest, far from the turmoil of the war. In fact, he was somewhat reassured that Frog was finally socialising with someone. He spent little time with the other cadets at the academy. His classmates had always viewed him with mistrust and jealousy, while he chose to keep his distance from them.

  On previous visits, Dun-Cadal and Frog had never lingered so long in the Imperial city before being sent back to the front. But their last mission to Kapernevic had been such a success that the Emperor decided their present stay was the moment for Frog to swear his oath. Only the absence of His Imperial Majesty for reasons of health had cast a cloud on that day, but otherwise, what pride and satisfaction Dun-Cadal had felt when he tapped his sword upon his apprentice’s shoulder.

  ‘I hereby swear . . .

  ‘. . . to defend the Empire . . .’

  Even though the war went on and the rebellion gained a little more ground with the passing months, Emeris remained an island of tranquillity at the heart of the storm. The singing
of birds had replaced the yells of soldiers. Sunshine bathed the white stones of the parapet with a soft light.

  ‘. . . to never take the path of anger . . .’

  He caught sight of Frog in his grey cape and, facing him, a young woman aged about twenty with a black braid falling upon her bare shoulder. Her dress was carmine red but plain, without embroidery or other signs of wealth. Perhaps she was the servant of some retired duchess in Emeris. But no, for as he approached he had no difficulty recognising her bright blue eyes and gleaming olive-coloured complexion. She had the same comely look she had at Garmaret . . . she might have grown up but he was certain there was no error on his part.

  ‘Frog!’ he bellowed.

  ‘Knight . . .’

  The young man turned round and his face hardened as the girl whispered something in his ear. She took her leave before Dun-Cadal joined the newly dubbed knight . . . almost his equal now. The two men watched as her slender figure reached the end of the bridge and descended the stairs leading to the palace’s interior, before the general broke the silence in a scolding tone.

  ‘I’ve been hunting for you for hours.’

  ‘You used to be more effective than that,’ replied Frog, his face remaining expressionless.

  He continued looking towards the end of the walkway as if the young woman were still there. How he had changed in so little time, growing nearly as tall as his mentor. Although his features were more refined they were also harder, his cheekbones sharper and his brow creased by wrinkles whenever his wide eyebrows frowned. As for his grey eyes, they retained a juvenile gleam, although Dun-Cadal sometimes glimpsed a curious grimness there.

  ‘Whenever you’re not busy with Aladzio, then she occupies your time,’ the knight grumbled. ‘You know what I think about that.’

  ‘I’ve been training with the other cadets, Wader,’ Frog assured him in a phlegmatic tone.

  ‘What if we’re sent back to the front tomorrow? You shouldn’t be training with the cadets. You’re a knight now, you blockhead!’